


the taste of you alone

by graiai



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Mutual Masturbation, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Canon, Teacher-Student Relationship, guided masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24782149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graiai/pseuds/graiai
Summary: Five times something kept Oksana and Anna apart, and one time there was nothing.
Relationships: Anna Leonova/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 15
Kudos: 45
Collections: The First Annual Femslash Kink Exchange 2020





	the taste of you alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kimaracretak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/gifts).



If Anna held a gun to her head, Oksana could not name the poet whose book she’s reading from. There is only the way the French rolls off her tongue, and her lips. Those lips painted—or stained—red and Oksana would not be able to think of anything else. She imagines herself asked to define a word, and saying instead _kiss me_. _S'il vous plaît_.

“You should wear lipstick,” Oksana interrupts.

Anna likewise responds in Russian. “Are you listening, Oksana?”

Oksana repeats the last line Anna had read in her best enunciated French, and smiles when Anna sets down the book and takes off her reading glasses to look at her the way she does when Oksana has done something impressive.

That’s when she notices.

From across the small dining table it’s only Oksana’s arm she can see, but there’s no mistaking her movements for anything but what they are: grinding the palm of her hand into her clit through her skirt, and if the tabletop weren’t between them Anna could see the tattle-tale wet patch she’s leaving on it. When Oksana makes her way home after her lesson, everyone who bothers to look will know she was touching herself. But Anna fixes her gaze on Oksana’s face, and Oksana meets it, her pupils blown wide.

Anna asks, “Have you grown bored of the lesson?” and Oksana blinks in confusion.

“No.”

Anna has more questions, but only about verb tenses and obscure vocabulary and even spelling. None of the questions Oksana’s _expecting_ , no ‘what’s wrong with you?’ or ‘were you raised in a barn, girl?’, the usual ones. Oksana is a little disappointed.

“I have a question,” Oksana says after at least a dozen answers. Anna looks wary as she nods at her to go ahead. “Can we finish the poem?”

Anna agrees, and resumes her recitation of—Oksana thinks the poem, or maybe the book, or both is called _Les Fleurs du mal_. Oksana comes to the steady rhythm of her voice, deep and gorgeous, and gasping her teacher’s name for the first time out loud.

Anna doesn’t look at Oksana again until they’ve finished their lesson, and sees her off with three kisses that don’t ever actually touch her cheek, like she thinks they’re in Paris.

· † · † · † ·

The second time Oksana masturbates in the Leonovs’ dining room, Anna sneaks glances between her spread thighs. She’s a terrible sneak, but Oksana is grateful for it, because it proves her right. Anna _is_ interested, and only thinks she _shouldn’t_.

Oksana can work with that.

She lets her knees fall open, exaggerates her motions when she slips her fingers underneath soaked panties, exaggerates her _sounds_ when Anna turns her head away with some excuse of looking for a certain bit of paper. 

When she comes it’s only the first time that day, and the first only ever makes Oksana greedy. Anna holds what may or may not be the elusive paper in front of her like a shield, but her left hand sits unguarded on the table. Oksana makes to grab it.

She gets her hand smacked as hard as anyone has ever cared to.

It still smarts a bit that night when under the sheets in her own bed Oksana pushes her hand into her cunt up to the sore knuckles.

· † · † · † ·

Oksana arrived to her lesson wearing a sweater, shirt, and a loose skirt, and only the skirt is not yet strewn across the floor. Anna has tracked every movement.

Oksana lifts her legs and her skirt falls down her thighs, and parts her knees only slightly. The air is cool on the lips of her bare cunt, already wet without being touched at all.

Anna’s eyes flick out over her glasses, and she sets down her pen with a long exhale. Her glasses follow, and when she raises her head her eyes are closed. “Oksana.”

Oksana smiles, laying her chin on one knee. “You can stop pretending you don’t want me. Anybody could tell.” She doesn’t say it meanly. She’s sure Anna probably thinks she’s very subtle, adjusting her skirt and never looking for too long at Oksana’s parted lips or between her spread thighs. She probably thinks it makes her a bad person to want her—and maybe it does, but Oksana doesn’t think she would like Anna very much if she was only a good person all the way down. “I bet even your husband wonders why you’re so wet for him after our lessons,” and she thinks she doesn’t mind the bitterness in those words, when it’s Oksana who gets Anna wet but _he_ gets to have her.

Something goes chilly in Anna’s demeanor. “I ought to put you over my knee,” she snaps.

Oksana lets herself imagine it—her skirt pulled up and her panties pulled down, and Anna touching her, bare skin to bare skin. Even if it was only a punishment… Oksana’s eyes flutter closed, and she pinches the fragile skin of the back of her thigh just beneath her knee, imagining Anna responsible for the smarting pain. “Please,” she breathes—begs, and _s'il vous plaît_ and _por favor_ and she would continue, reciting anything her teacher wanted, words Anna had taught her and words she’d taught herself just to see the way Anna’s eyes light up with—love. Oksana thinks it’s love.

Oksana hopes it’s love.

“You…you utterly shameless girl,” Anna says, awestruck. She recovers quickly enough to order, “Put your palms flat on the chair and sit on them.”

“Why?”

“I said sit on them. Knees apart. We only have twenty minutes left. You can bear not to touch yourself during them.” And suddenly Oksana realizes her meaning: they have twenty minutes left alone, and Anna would rather spend them teaching her than playing her games. It’s awkward, feeling her cunt bare against the wooden chair and her hands getting numb from the weight of her thighs, but it’s nothing she can’t bear for twenty minutes. For Anna.

But after only ten Anna announces their lesson finished, and begins to stack the papers they’ve left on the table—composition assignments Oksana has brought her. “You did well today,” she says. Oksana sulks.

She’s still sulking when Anna picks up the shirt and sweater from the floor and drops them into her lap—but also lingers close long enough to kiss the top of Oksana’s head. Oksana doesn’t think she’s ever gotten so close.

“What is your perfume?” she asks idly, buttoning her shirt. It’s floral, and it clings to Anna like Oksana wishes she could.

“I don’t know the name of it. It was a gift.”

“I like it.” The _anyway_ goes unsaid, she thinks.

“Thank you,” says Anna, and then, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” as she’s ushered out the door. 

As soon as it shuts behind her, Oksana lets it take her weight, hiking up her skirt in the middle of the hallway—where anyone could see her, even Anna’s husband as he makes his way home—and sinks two fingers inside herself, rubbing her clit with the pad of her thumb. Her fingers halfway numb from the pressure of sitting on them still, they almost don’t feel like _hers_. She comes in less than a minute, and stays leaning against the door to catch her breath.

On the other side, she can hear Anna’s labored breathing. She has to be Oksana’s mirror image: her back against the door and her skirt pulled up past her waist, her hand between sticky, wet thighs. 

_Oh_ , she was rushed out the door so Anna could have this before her husband came home, because Anna _needed_ this—needed _her_. She doesn’t know how Anna likes to be touched yet, if she’s pushing into her hand or filling herself up with her fingers, playing with her tits or holding on to whatever she can reach as her breath grows more unsteady. Oksana presses her hand into her own oversensitive clit as she listens and finds her resentment slipping away, and all that’s left by the time Anna comes with a soft gasp of “Oksana!” is joy.

It _must_ be love.

· † · † · † ·

“Tu t'es déjà regardée?” asks Anna. _Have you ever watched yourself?_

Oksana hesitates as she unclasps her bra and tosses it to the floor with the rest of her clothes. “Je n'ai jamais.” _Never._ Why would she ever want to watch herself when she could be watching Anna watch her?

“You will today.” It’s not a question; it’s a fact. She places the hand mirror between Oksana’s naked thighs, and when Oksana turns her face away, Anna catches her chin between her thumb and forefinger. Unwilling to shake off her touch, Oksana is guided to look.

She’s wet for Anna, obviously. In just lamplight it’s shiny on her lips, even in her hair, and—she knew it’d look like that. _Anna_ had to know it’d look like that, when she spends all English class squirming and wishing Mrs. Leonova would ever tolerate her touching herself under her desk the way Anna lets her touch herself under her dining room table. She looks to Anna for guidance.

“Do you want to touch?” Oksana nods _yes, of course_. “You usually don’t need an invitation,” she teases.

And no, usually she doesn’t—usually Anna is stealing glances at what Oksana is trying so desperately to let her see in the course of an otherwise normal lesson. Not forgoing the lesson entirely to guide her by a hand between her shoulderblades away from the table and toward the couch. For a brief, soaring moment, Oksana had thought she’d _won_. But Anna had retreated to another chair instead of joining her, invited her to undress if she liked, and told her to open her legs not so Anna could get between them, but a mirror.

Oksana is naked in front of her, and Anna sits primly in her armchair, and her leer puts butterflies in Oksana's stomach but she's still refusing to touch Oksana herself but for those few savored moments, her fingers on Oksana's jaw. “Wouldn’t you rather do it yourself?” she digs, and _lives_ for Anna’s hesitation, her lips parting and tongue poised between them before she seems to think better of it.

It doesn’t matter that Anna barrels on with a sharp-voiced order: “Part the lips of your cunt with your fingers. Look in the mirror.” Oksana knows what she was going to say was _Yes_.

If Oksana were touching herself, alone or even to taunt Anna across the table, she wouldn’t bother. It’s not like it’s _hard_ to find her clit when she wants it and has her hand to grind on—or something else, and she dares a half-second glance at Anna, knees firmly together but smoothing her skirt over them.

Oksana’s brows knit. “Are you _nervous_?”

“Eyes forward,” Anna orders. “Good. Spread yourself open, enough to get your fingers wet. More wet.” A rare heat rises in Oksana’s cheeks as she obeys. She feels soaked—her panties were, when she took them off—and her fingers slip trying to follow along, but Anna is patient with her.

“I’m usually better at this,” Oksana says, and earns herself a warm, surprised laugh.

“You’re doing fine,” Anna says gently. “Touch yourself. How you would any other time.”

Any other time and Oksana would have come by now. Probably twice. She should thank Anna for—allowing it? But even Russian feels like nonsense on her tongue when she crushes her clit beneath her fingers, harder for how wet they are.

“Watch,” says Anna.

“I am,” Oksana argues, but she isn’t, not really. Her eyes are pointed at the mirror but it takes work to focus them, but she manages, sees the mess on her thighs and the flush in her lips and the pulse of her cunt as she comes.

She lets her head loll to one shoulder and her hand go still. The pressure is nice, still, she always likes it during those first shaking breaths.

“Now inside. How many can you fit?”

“—three,” she forces out in Russian, and shakes her head. “ _Trois_.”

“Good,” says Anna, and Oksana doesn’t know why that was the right answer, but she’s sure it was. “I wanted to see you get your hand inside.”

It steals the breath from Oksana’s lungs. Anna thinks of her—imagines her making a ruin of her cunt, leaving her lips gaping wide and wanting to be filled again. Oksana dares to look away from the mirror between her thighs, and her heartbeat pounds in her ears. The hem of Anna’s skirt is up to nearly her waist, even past the line where her nude-colored pantyhose go from transparent to opaque, and her hand is between her thighs.

Oksana’s entire world narrows to the dark wet patch on her teacher’s pantyhose. _She_ ’s done that. Anna is going to come watching Oksana finger herself open, and before Anna finds the words to reprimand her for looking, Oksana forces all four of her fingers knuckle-deep into her cunt.

The stretch stings, and Oksana wonders if the sight of her cunt straining around her fingers is how Anna envisioned it. Her voice is unsteady when she tells Oksana, “Take them deeper,” but Oksana can’t drag her eyes away from the mirror to see what she’s done to her teacher; she can only watch her cunt struggling to accept her knuckles past its lips. She thinks she might tear. She thinks she would like it.

Oksana gasps when she succeeds, the sharpness of the strain and the fullness of almost her whole hand inside her cunt entirely new sensations. Her fingers are so deep inside of her.

Anna voices a little gasp and Oksana’s eyes go wide. She _knows_ that sound. She doesn’t need to look to know Anna is getting off on watching her—on seeing what Oksana is. Oksana finds her clit with her thumb and tries to match her, guessing from the sound of her breaths filling the room and the motion she can half-see in her peripheral vision. She lets herself make sound, too, just how heavy her exhales want to come, and she doesn’t know if Anna is still watching when she comes, but Oksana shuts her eyes tight when she follows seconds later.

“More,” comes Anna’s ragged voice.

“What?” Oksana can barely think, can’t move when her cunt won’t stop clenching, can’t open her eyes and risk seeing Anna with her hand still between her legs, soaked through her hose to show Oksana her dark hair and pink cunt.

“Fold your thumb under,” Anna says, “and push it inside with your fingers.”

Oksana can’t tell if it’s an order, a punishment for coming without permission—or a request. It doesn’t matter. She can’t bear to disappoint Anna, not now, not ever. But she feels how tight her cunt already is around her knuckles, and her lips already look stretched so far they should break. “It won’t fit.”

“It will,” Anna promises. Tears welling in Oksana’s eyes, she pulls her hand far enough out of her there’s space to wedge in her thumb.

It hurts. She’s too full already, too sensitive. She can’t possibly take more. Her knees try to close around her hand, and Oksana imagines Anna holding them apart. She imagines it’s Anna’s hand making space for itself inside of her cunt and not her own, not because she’s smaller but because she wouldn’t _stop_ , not until Oksana had reached her limit— _potential_ , Anna would say. She never does.

She can barely hear it when Anna murmurs, “Oh, look at you. So beautiful. You’re doing so well, Oksana.”

· † · † · † ·

Anna’s cunt is still clenching around nothingness when she pulls Oksana up from between her thighs into her lap. Oksana settles kneeling over Anna’s leg, the underside of it marked pink even through her pantyhose from the heat of so long resting hooked over Oksana’s shoulder.

“Mm,” Anna murmurs a shade away from displeased as Oksana ducks her head to bite Anna’s nipple through the plain unlined cotton of her bra. “No. I want to taste you,” she says, and catches Oksana’s hair to close the gap between them.

Anna is bittersweet on Oksana’s tongue, the taste muted through ever-present nylons. Oksana kisses it back into Anna’s mouth as she grinds against her thigh, and vows to someday have all of her, her bare cunt on Oksana’s tongue, Oksana’s on her bare thigh, her lips bitten so, so red Oksana can taste her blood.

· † · † · † ·

Anna’s hands skim Oksana’s sides, her fingertips ghosting over the faint impression of her ribcage beneath the black lace band of her shoplifted lingerie. All the best for her today, balloons and cake and a likewise shoplifted CD of that French singer Doré’s album, because Anna called his voice romantic when they watched him perform on the television, hands between each other’s thighs on the couch.

Anna unclasps her bra with as much care as the first time, and kisses the swell of Oksana’s tits as she slips the straps off her shoulders. Once the bra falls forgotten to the floor, Anna’s hands travel lower, her thumbs caressing Oksana’s hipbones, catching the elastic of her panties and helping her step out of them. Her cupped hand pushes between Oksana’s legs, letting Oksana roll her hips into Anna’s touch. Her wedding band is cool metal against Oksana’s heated flesh, but Maxi’s blood is cool on the bedroom floor and hot and sticky inside of her cunt, a barely-there stain in the seat of her panties.

Kneeling before her with her hair mussed and a blush high in her cheeks, Anna presses practiced fingers inside Oksana’s cunt. “How long do we have?” she asks, and places a kiss at the join of her thighs.

Oksana weaves her fingers through Anna’s hair and smiles. “We have all the time in the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> Oksana was playing [Julien Doré's performance of Moi Lolita](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fMQw7WldCfE)!


End file.
